


This New World Order

by TristansGirl



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Gen, Sex for Favors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this possible world, Tommy should have been safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea a few months ago for a story, but I knew I wouldn't have the time to write it. This actually stems from my fear of the Tea Party and what could happen if they gain power. I passed the idea along to Sulwen who came up an amazing story for it. Thank you, love!  
> Now, I'm writing my version of it. It's going to seem eerily similar to hers, but it's all good because it's a shared concept. Actually, if anyone else wants to write in this universe - go right ahead. I would love to read others's takes on it

They come for him in the middle of the night.

He doesn’t expect it though maybe he should have. Maybe because Adam had assured him that he’d be safe, had promised that he’d be safe . . . he doesn’t expect it.

 _You’re straight, Tommy. They won’t come after you. You’ll be ok._

He recalls the words as they drag him from his bed, as they handcuff his hands behind his back, as they beat him even though he doesn’t resist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The trial comes two weeks later. The judge asks him how he pleads. He wants to tell them all to go fuck themselves, but his lawyer stands and speaks for him before he can even gather breath.

Not guilty.

The prosecution presents its evidence in just under an hour. Most of it consists of video of him kissing Adam on stage for the tour. His own lawyer, overworked and underpaid, has nothing to counteract it.

The tribunal (there’s no jury, for cases like these, it’s a tribunal of three) deliberates for less than ten minutes.

They force him to stand as they tell him that he was been found guilty of the charge of homosexuality.

His knees buckle, but he somehow manages to brace himself against the table before he falls.

He knows the sentence, is reciting it in his head before the judge can recite it out loud.

He will be sent to a labor prison. Part work camp, part re-orientation facility, he will spend the rest of his days there unless the state manages to “cure” him.

No one is ever cured.

Under this new world order, where the religious right has managed to grab the majority of power in all levels of the government, this is the punishment for being found guilty of homosexuality.

As the guards escort him away, he’s tempted to turn and tell them all that he's straight, that those kisses were just for the fans, that they meant nothing. He manages to bite his tongue at the last moment. He won’t give them the satisfaction.

Fuck them, he won’t give them the satisfaction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s almost funny, he’s the one convicted of being gay, yet it’s the guards that take liberties. Demand favors.

Tommy doesn’t understand what his appeal is. They’ve shaved off all his hair and he’s skinnier than he’s ever been in his life. The shadows under his eyes are so dark as to look like bruises and his skin has turned sallow, his lips always cracked and dry.

But they must see something they like, because they keep coming for him.

So he goes along. For an extra blanket or an extra ration at dinner, he gets down on his knees and offers his mouth. After the first few times, he stops considering it a big deal. Dignity has a short shelf life here. It’s one of the first lessons learned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His life begins to take on a dreamlike quality, vague and slippery as time ceases to have any true meaning. He doesn’t know if he’s been here weeks or months or more. What he does know is as each day ends, he lies down, trembling and exhausted, his entire body aching, his torn hands frozen into claws that he holds against his chest.

Sometimes he thinks about his old life, about his family and his friends. Sometimes he thinks about the feel of an instrument in his hands or the way he used to pose for pictures with all the eager girls.

Sometimes he thinks about Adam and how Adam had promised him that he’d be safe.

Sometimes he wonders why Adam lied.

But mostly he doesn’t think at all. Thinking hurts, thinking makes it real. It’s easier to fall into the routine, to go blank, to go numb.

Day after day. Night after night.

Blank.

Numb.

Until one day when one of the guards comes for him.

“You must have friends in high places, Ratliff.”

Tommy stares at him blankly, waiting for more.

“You’re getting out of here,” the guard says.

Tommy continues to stare. This is Perkins. Perkins’s nails always leave indents in Tommy’s skin.

“Jesus, you’re a stupid motherfucker, aren’t you?” Perkins asks. “Someone paid your way out. A shit ton of money too. Can’t imagine why.” He looks Tommy up and down, as if he's appraising, as if he doesn't already know him. “Nothing special about you.”

Tommy doesn’t react, not even when Perkins takes him to shower and dress. He won’t allow himself to think, won’t allow himself to feel. Sometimes the guards play tricks. This feels like a trick.

Besides, this is his life now. Why would he allow himself to think any differently?

He doesn’t react when the warden escorts him out of the prison.

He doesn’t react when he’s driven to the airfield, or when he boards the plane.

He doesn’t even react when Lane straps in next to him.

“You’re safe now, Tommy.”

He looks down at his lap, at the way her hand pats at his leg. He can hear her crying and when he looks up, he can see the tears running down her face.

“Tommy, do you understand? You’re safe. We’re taking you where Adam is. Where Terence and Sasha are.”

“You left me,” he says. There’s no accusation in his tone. He’s merely stating a fact.

He watches as Lane’s face breaks.

“I know. I am so sorry, Tommy. We never thought they’d come after you. We thought you’d be all right. We are so sorry.”

He looks down at his hands. They’re shaking. He doesn’t react, it’s just something that happens sometimes. He thinks its from the electric shock treatment, but he can't say for sure.

He turns away from her.

“I’m tired.”

“Of course. Of course, you are.” She pats at his leg. “Why don’t you sleep? It’s going to be a long flight.”

Tommy closes his eyes. He can’t think. He can’t feel. It’s been so long since he’s done either that he truly doesn’t know how to anymore.

But he is tired.

And despite the enormity of what’s happening, he does sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wakes up in someone’s arms. He flinches and pushes away, and the arms loosen though they don’t let go entirely.

He looks, really looks.

Sees that it's Adam. He flinches again as he tries to move away.

“You’re safe, Tommy,” Adam tells him. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

Adam’s crying. Just like Lane was.

Tommy tries to care. Tries to feel something. Anything.

But he can’t. All he can do is lie back in Adam’s arms and wonder why he’s being lied to again.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s silent as he goes through customs, silent as he gets in the car.

Lane drives as he and Adam settle in the back. Tommy moves to the window, resting his forehead against it as he watches the world fly by.

“Tommy?” Adam’s voice is tentative. He’s sitting very close, though not close enough to touch, as if he senses that any contact would be unwelcome.

Tommy can’t seem to tear his eyes away. His world has been nothing but muted grays and browns for so long. He feels like he’s seeing colors for the first time and he can’t tear his eyes away, not even for Adam.

“Where are we?” he finally asks.

“Canada. Vancouver. This is where we came after things went bad. We’ve been here ever since.”

Tommy nods and falls silent once again. He jumps, startled, when Adam touches him a moment later.

“You’re shaking,” Adam says. “Your hands.”

“It happens sometimes,” he murmurs. He looks down, leaving the colors behind. He can see his hands, so frail and bruised, trembling within Adam’s.

He pulls them away and cradles them to his chest.

“You should see a doctor. Maybe tomorrow,” Adam says. “He can see if there’s anything wrong.”

Tommy feels laughter bubbling up in his throat. He clamps down on it until it disappears. He doesn’t bother telling Adam that everything is wrong. He doesn’t bother explaining to Adam that there is no longer anything about him that is right, that maybe there never was.

He spends the rest of the ride staring out the window.

The house, when they finally arrive at it, is larger than Tommy expected. He can’t seem to stop staring at it, even as he, Lane and Adam move closer to it.

Adam explains that he’d been renting it, that he wanted something large with plenty of rooms for any friends or family that might need a place to stay. He tells Tommy that he finally caved in and bought it outright a few months ago, when he finally admitted to himself that the situation in the States wasn’t getting any better.

Tommy listens to all of this, though he does not respond. He’s having a hard time making sense of what Adam is saying, the words like jigsaw pieces that don’t quite fit together.

Lane opens the front door and walks in, leaving Tommy to walk beside Adam. Adam places a hand on Tommy’s shoulder and says, “There are some people here for you.”

Tommy doesn’t have time to wonder what that means. He doesn’t have to. As soon as he steps inside the house he sees them. He sees Monte and Sasha, Terrance and Isaac and Cam and Taylor.

They all seem to come at him at once, all talking at once, their words turning into unintelligible sounds. Somebody touches him, he’s not sure who, but their grip is too strong and it’s too fast and he flinches and twists away. The word 'no' escapes him, not quite a shout, he never shouts anymore, but it’s enough to make everyone freeze. Tommy takes one look at them, at their stricken faces and he drops his gaze to the floor hugging his arms tightly around his body.

He feels exposed and fragile and stupid and he wants nothing more to disappear, to die . . . anything that will make them stop looking.

“All right guys, let’s give him a minute, ok?”

Tommy recognizes the voice. That’s Monte. But he still doesn’t look up, still doesn’t move.

“This is probably really overwhelming and we’re not helping by rushing at him. Right, Tommy?”

Tommy gives a quick, jerky nod.

He still doesn’t look up.

“What do you want to do right now, Tommy? What sounds good right now?”

Tommy shrugs.

“Do you want something to eat? Are you hungry?”

He can’t look up. He can’t. But he does shake his head. No, he’s not hungry.

“Do you maybe want a shower? To freshen up?”

Monte’s voice is closer now and he’s speaking very softly. Tommy finds himself responding to it, almost against his will. He glances up and whispers, “No.”

“Maybe to lie down? Get a little sleep?”

At that, Tommy nods, finally lifting his head. Monte’s only a few feet away and he’s looking at him with such kindness, such pity.

Tommy almost looks away again. Pity is better than anything that the guards ever showed him.

Monte reaches out, taking Tommy by the elbow. He’s very gentle, drawing him forward until Tommy takes a step toward him.

Then another.

And another.

“Come on. I’ll take you up to your room.”

Tommy stops though he doesn’t pull away. “When do I have to go back?” he asks. He’s not asking anyone in particular, not really. He just wants to know. He needs to start preparing himself.

It’s Adam who answers. “You don’t have to go back, Tommy. Not ever again. You’re free.”

That doesn’t feel right, it feels like a lie. Of course he has to go back, his sentence was for life and as much as he sometimes wishes it, he isn’t dead.

But he’s too tired to argue, too tired to even try. So instead he lets Monte lead him away.

He doesn’t bother to look up, doesn’t bother acknowledging the whispers about him.


	3. Chapter 3

Monte leads Tommy up the stairs and down the hall. There he stops in front of one of the rooms, stepping aside so that Tommy can enter.

Tommy does, looking around quickly, his gaze never settling on anything for very long. The room is nice, not overly large, but nice. It’s clean and it has a bed and a chest of drawers and a large tv on a stand. A typical room, until he glances over to the corner. There, propped up on stands, sit three guitars, one is acoustic, one is electric and one is a bass. There’s a practice amp next to them, along with a small effects board.

Now Tommy can’t seem to look away. He takes a step toward them, hesitating. He doesn’t even realize that his arm is outstretched, hand reaching for them.

“We thought you might like to play again. The . . . uh, government confiscated your old ones so we bought you these. Fender, just like you like.”

“You got these . . . for me?” Tommy whispers.

Monte comes up to stand next to Tommy. “Do you want to play them now?”

Tommy turns away from them, shaking his head. There’s a tightening in his throat, a clenching that he can feel throughout his body but especially in his heart. He brings his hand up to chest to soothe it away.

He can’t do this now. It’s too much . . . if he allows himself to feel then he allows himself to hurt. And he’s pretty sure that he won’t be able to handle that. Not now, not yet.

“I want to sleep,” he says, even though suddenly he’s not so tired.

Monte walks to the dresser, pulls some clothing out and lays it on the bed. “Why don’t you put these on? You’ll be more comfortable.”

Tommy nods as he touches them, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. Pajamas. So soft. He’d forgotten that anything could be this soft.

Monte takes several steps backward. “I’ll um . . . I’ll turn around.”

Tommy appreciates the gesture, but he really doesn’t care. He’s grown used to showering with dozens of men, to changing clothes in front of them. This is nothing.

He takes off his clothes and replaces them with what Monte has given him. He moves slowly, his body still registering the aches and pains of the work camp. He’s just gotten the t-shirt over his head when he hears Monte gasp.

He turns around, pulling the shirt down to cover himself.

Across the room, Monte’s staring at him, a look of stricken horror on his face. Tommy hugs his arms around his stomach, feeling self-conscious. Feeling ugly.

“What did they do to you, Tommy?”

Tommy ducks his head down. Unsure of what the question even means, he has no way to answer. Is Monte looking at the old scars, the ones that he got his first few weeks at the camp, back when he still had fight in him? Or is he looking at more recent cuts and bruises, those inherent from the typical work day. Or something else? Tommy knows that he’s thin, almost skeletal. He knows that he’s not attractive by anyone’s standards anymore.

But he also doesn’t know which of these things Monte is referring to. Maybe all of them. Maybe something else entirely.

“I’m sorry,” Monte says. He crosses the distance between them and places a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just . . .” His words trail off into a sigh. “We’re going to get you healthy again, Tommy Joe. You’ll see. You’re going to heal.”

Tommy mumbles some kind of meaningless affirmative without bothering to look up. Then he lets Monte lead him to the bed, lets Monte pull aside the covers so that he can slide in.

After what feels like an eternity sleeping on a hard, narrow cot, an actual bed feels foreign to him. It also feels decadent. Good . . . it feels so good that he finds himself groaning in pleasure as he turns and snuggles in under the comforter. He closes his eyes while Monte crosses to the window to close the blinds.

When he opens them again, it’s to find that Monte is looking at him, his gaze very soft and sad. It’s not completely dark, light stealing through the cracks in the blinds, and he can see the tears in Monte’s eyes, the ones that Monte must be fighting because they won’t fall.

“I’ll let you sleep now,” Monte says, his voice choked and heavy.

Tommy nods and closes his eyes. He opens them in surprise when he feels Monte’s lips give a careful kiss against his scalp, just above his ear.

“We missed you, Tommy Joe.”

Then Monte straightens, turning as if to leave. Tommy reaches out and grabs Monte’s wrist. He doesn’t pull, merely holds, and says, “I don’t understand.”

Monte’s voice is kind when he answers. “What? What don’t you understand?”

“Anything. I don’t understand any of it.”

Monte hesitates, as if searching for an answer. “Do you want me to stay?” he says after a few moments.

“No.” Tommy releases Monte’s wrist. No, he doesn’t want that. He wants to be alone. He’s tired again and he wants to be alone.

Monte doesn’t touch him again, though he looks as if he wants to. “The bathroom’s down the hall if you need it. I’ll come check on you in a bit, ok? If you sleep too long now, you won’t sleep at night, you know.”

Tommy nods. There’s something comforting about Monte sounding like a dad. Comforting enough to allow him to close his eyes and give in to sleep when Monte slips away.


	4. Chapter 4

Tommy wakes to the feel of gentle hands shaking him. He doesn’t register the gentle however, only the shaking and he scrambles up to a sitting position, already apologizing, already frightened.

“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry,” he says, breathless.

How could he have slept through the morning bell? It’s been ages since he’s done that, ages since the guards have had to punish him for it. He prepares himself for the punch or the slap, the hand on the back of his neck that will throw him to the floor.

It takes him a few moments before he realizes that none of those things are happening. That instead the hands have withdrawn and a soft voice is apologizing to him. The soft voice is telling him that he’s ok, that he’s safe.

Tommy uncurls his body and looks, really looks, surprised to see that there is no angry guard in front of him. It’s Monte, and he looks just as terrified as Tommy feels. But the terror is already slipping away because Tommy knows that Monte won’t hurt him. He knows that he’s safe now. Unless . . . unless this is all a dream?

Unless he really is oversleeping and the guards are angry with him again.

“Monte?” he says, trying out his voice. It’s too soft and shaky as hell but at least it works.

Monte seems relieved to hear him talk. His face begins to lose that pinched look of fear, it’s lines softening.

“Yeah, Tommy. It’s me.”

“Are you . . . what . . .” He’s not even sure what he means to say and the words falter and stutter on his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” Monte says. His face has changed again, guilt now written over every feature. It makes Monte look much older than he is. “It’s almost nine at night and we thought you should eat, get on a normal sleep schedule. I didn’t mean to scare you, Tommy. I’m so sorry.”

Tommy nods once, quick and sharp, as he hugs his knees to his body. He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to. I’m sorry. You can go back to sleep.”

Tommy considers it for a moment, considers the fact that he gets to choose. Just like earlier in the day when Monte let him decide between food, a shower, or sleep. He remembers that he used to do things like this all the time, make his own decisions. He used to own his own life.   
He hesitates, a little fearful to ask for what he wants. He can’t even pinpoint why the fear is there, he only knows that it is. “I want to eat. I’m hungry.”

Monte nods and smiles.

“And then . . . can I have a shower?” He quickly adds, “If it’s ok? I don’t . . . I won’t use a lot of water or anything, I . . .”

“Of course, yeah,” Monte cuts in. “Anything you want, man. Anything. And you don’t have to ask, ok? This is your house now.”

Tommy shakes his head, feeling inexplicably sad at the declaration. “This isn’t . . . this isn’t mine.”

Monte reaches out, squeezing Tommy’s shoulder gently. “It is. It’s been waiting for you. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Tommy feels something then, something quick and hot and painful twisting at his insides. It’s just like before, when he’d seen the guitars. And just like before, he clamps down on it quickly, not liking it. It feels like weakness, it feels like vulnerability and he can’t . . . he just can’t.

Not until he knows that this is real. Not until he’s sure that he can really stay here. And maybe not even then.

Monte stands and backs away. “You can get dressed if you want. Or you can stay like that. It’s just me, you and Adam here so it doesn’t matter.

Tommy looks up, confused. Weren’t there others?

Monte must read the question in his eyes. “We thought there might be too many people here. That it was too overwhelming, so we sent them all home. Just us tonight.”

Tommy hugs his arms around his chest. That sounds right, it sounds better. The idea of less people sounds so much better. Less people to stare at him, their gazes filled with pity but their eyes questioning, trying to see inside, trying to figure out what’s wrong with him exactly. He used to be one of them, but he isn’t anymore. He doesn’t know who he is or what he is anymore.

He nods and flexes his hands. They’re shaking again, damn it. Always shaking.

“Ok,” Tommy says. “Dinner sounds . . . ok.”


	5. Chapter 5

The shower feels amazing. He had told Monte that he wouldn’t use a lot of water but he can’t quite make himself turn off the spray and step out. He tries to think of the last time he had a hot shower. Tries but cannot think past tepid water and overcrowded communal stalls. This . . . this is heaven in comparison.

When he finally turns off the water it’s with a mournful whimper at the loss of its warmth. He pauses for a moment, considers stepping back in the stall and turning it back on, then thinks better of it. He had told Monte that he wouldn’t take too long and even though he knows, he _knows_ , that Monte won’t hurt him, there’s a small, secret part of him that isn’t so sure.

He grabs the towel that Monte had set aside for him and dries himself off quickly, shrugging back into the clothes that he slept in. He makes a point to avoid the mirror. He doesn’t need to be reminded of how bad he looks.

He makes his way downstairs and finds Adam and Monte already sitting in the living room, their plates heaped with food. They hand him one, inviting him to sit down. There’s something playing on the tv, a movie that’s new to him but old to the both of them.

It feels like a silly thing but Tommy can’t help but hate them a little for that.

He tries not to focus on how awkward and uncomfortable he feels, tries instead to focus on the food, relishing every bite. He eats as much of it as he can, nearly salivating, nearly choking on it at times because he’s eating so quickly.

Mercifully, neither Monte nor Adam talk much, instead keeping their questions neutral and simple.

“Did you sleep well?”

“How was the shower?”

“Is the food ok?”

These he can handle, answering quietly between bites of food and sips of ice tea until he finishes everything.

Afterwards, they all head outside to the backyard and sit in chairs on the porch. Adam hands him a beer and Tommy stares at it, unsure. He’s so full that he feels nearly sick but the idea of drinking a beer again is too tempting. He sips at it, savoring the taste of it against his tongue, trying to commit it to memory.

Tommy can feel their eyes on him, curious, pained glances, even in the dark. He keeps his gaze down though he can see them in his peripheral vision. He can see how Adam keeps reaching out for him, pulling his arm back before he can actually touch.

He hears Adam give a shuddery sigh only moments before he begins to speak.

“I’m sorry, Tommy. We got you out as soon as we could. You have to know that. We never thought . . . we never even thought . . .” Adam’s voice breaks on the last word. Tommy looks up, sees that Adam is crying.

“I’m sorry. I hope that maybe one day you can forgive me. I’m so sorry that I didn’t get you out sooner. I’m so sorry.”

Tommy doesn’t know what to say to any of this, so he doesn’t say anything at all. It’s Monte who stands up and goes to Adam’s side, Monte who pulls Adam into a solid embrace, who shushes him and tells him it’s all right.

“Now’s not the time,” Monte says. “You’re upsetting Tommy. Now’s not the time.”

Tommy watches, nearly frozen. He doesn’t feel upset. He doesn’t feel anything.

He watches, and after a moment, he clears his throat and asks, “When do I go back?”

Monte answers. “You never do. You’re out forever.”

Tommy shakes his head firmly. “That can’t be right. They’ll want me back.”

“We paid for you, Tommy,” Monte says. He says it bluntly, almost harshly, but it’s good, because it helps to cut through the fog that Tommy feels he’s in. “We paid for you. We cut a deal and they let you go.”

“There were others there,” Tommy says. He looks at them, and now he does feel something; a little bit of something that could be anger. “You left them.”

“We couldn’t get them all,” Adam says.

“Why me though? I’m not special.” These aren’t just words. He means it. There were others there who’d been there longer, who’d suffered more. They deserved to get out before him. He isn’t special and he doesn’t understand why he’s here.

“You are to us.”

Tommy looks up, unsure of which of them said it. He doesn’t believe it, but it still feels nice to hear. He shakes his head, surprised when the movement makes him dizzy.

“Whoa,” he mutters.

“You ok?” It’s Monte who asks. Monte who moves quickly to sit beside him, a hand already rubbing at his back.

“Got dizzy.”

“Shouldn’t have let you drink so much,” Monte says. He sounds angry, but at himself, not at Tommy. “You’re not used to it anymore.”

Tommy lets him take the beer from his hands, too tired to argue. He doesn’t understand why he’s so tired.

“Do you want to go to bed? You look exhausted.”

Tommy nods. Another question, another choice and the answer is yes. Too much has happened in only one day. He woke up this morning expecting another twelve-hour workday, expecting to have to bargain with the guards for more medicine for Jacob, expecting to go to bed cold and exhausted and sore.

This . . . this doesn’t seem real and he can’t grasp it. Too much, too soon and it’s making his head ache, making the shaking in his hands worse, the sick, dizzy feeling in his stomach intensify.

He does want to sleep, badly. He needs it . . . needs to stop thinking.

So he nods. And then he waits until someone takes his arm and leads him back to bed.


	6. Chapter 6

Two days pass, then three, then four.

It seems to take so long, understanding coming inch by pained inch, for him to believe that he will never have to go back to the prison, for him to believe that he is safe.

He begins to relax, and that too comes in gradual degrees. He begins to understand that he doesn’t have to rush out of a bath or a shower, that he can slow down and savor his food and whatever he’s drinking, that he can sleep as late as he wants to or put off sleeping as long as he wants to.

He’s beginning to understand that there will always be more of whatever he wants, to understand that he doesn’t have to grasp at it and that he will never be punished for wanting it.

He’s becoming better at asking for what he wants too. Better at making decisions and making choices for himself; things like deciding on a certain food for dinner or what movie they’ll watch at night. These things, these silly, inconsequential things feel monumental to him. They feel like small victories.

He still keeps quiet though.

He still keeps his head down, his arms around his body in unconscious protection. He still speaks mostly in whispers. Feeling safe doesn’t make the memories any less vivid. It doesn’t make him forget what he used to do for the guards. It doesn’t make him forget the beatings and the taunts and the "rehabilitation". It doesn’t stave off the guilt at leaving friends, good people, behind.

So he stays quiet, and he makes his small choices and he slowly begins to try and live again.

Four days after he arrives he wakes up, sweating and shaking from a half-remembered dream. He sits up in bed, letting his gaze drift as the nightmare diminishes. He sees the guitars and suddenly he _wants_. He picks out the acoustic and settles back on the bed with it.

He takes his time tuning it, doing it by ear as he listens to every nuance in the changes in the notes.

Then he positions his fingers and strums a C chord. The strings bite into his fingers, the pain of it delicious.

And after so long without music, with only the dim memory of it to sustain him, he begins to weep.

He plays, something simple and sweet. Or he tries to. But it’s not easy. His fingers fumble on the strings, his hands can’t quite form the chords fast enough.

After only a few minutes, he stands, guitar held by the neck as he smashes it against the wall.

He does it again, screaming so loudly that he can imagines he can feel his throat tear.

It’s rage he feels, pure and crystalline and dangerous, but he doesn’t stop it. He doesn’t want to stop it. For the first time in four days, for the first time in a very long time, he feels something.

He keeps smashing, keeps screaming until he sees Adam run into the room, Monte right behind him.

“Tommy! What’s wrong? What are you doing?” Adam asks.

“How long was I there?” he shouts. He brandishes the guitar in front of him like a weapon, almost daring them to come closer.

“What?” Adam asks. His eyes are bleary, hair disheveled.

“I can’t play anymore,” Tommy says, voice raw and bleeding anguish. “My hands, they’re not moving right. So how long was I there that I forgot how to play?”

Adam looks down, looks away. Monte does the same.

“Fucking tell me, Adam. You fucking tell me right now.”

Adam’s shoulders drop in defeat. He hesitates another moment before he answers. “Three years.”

Tommy drops the guitar and stumbles backward onto the bed.

 _No . . . not that long. It can’t be that long. It can’t . . ._

“That can’t be right,” he says, the words quiet, because there is no air in his lungs, nothing to speak with.

“My life . . . I lost three years of my fucking life?”

“I’m so sorry.” Adam comes toward him, hand outstretched, eyes sad.

Tommy stands up and bats Adam’s hand away. “You’re sorry? You took everyone else away and you left me there. You left me there so they could hurt me, and then you don’t bother coming back for three years?”

Tommy can hear how he sounds, equal parts petulant and bitter, the venom practically dripping from his tongue, but he can't stop it, he can't stop any of it.

“It’s wasn’t like that, Tommy,” Monte says, and now both of them are coming closer to him.

But he can’t, he can’t right now. He can’t handle them touching him or talking to him . . . he can’t even handle looking at them.

He turns away from them both, dropping the guitar before he himself drops to the floor. It’s not really anger that he feels now. This is different, darker. It feels like grief, like he is mourning his time lost.

Three years.

He’s already sobbing into his hands when he speaks again. “Get out. Please. Just . . . get out.”

He barely hears them murmur something, more apologies, barely hears them leave. He’s lost now, trapped in what feels like hell and all he can do is weep.


End file.
